


If I Go

by stuhlbarg



Category: Veep
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, European Vacation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3933928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuhlbarg/pseuds/stuhlbarg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan is left alone in London after having a breakdown. Little does he know that Jonah has stayed behind as well and their flight home doesn't go as planned.</p>
<p>(takes place after 03x07, and then kind of veers off)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've ever written, so forgive me if there are weird bits. Also: there are so many things I didn't research for this, so forgive me if there are things that are glaringly incorrect about the world. Also also: I'm not really planning it before I write, it just kind of came to me in spurts and I felt like THE WORLD NEEDED MORE DAN/JONAH FIC, so it might become a bit insane. Anyway, here you go. Who knows how long it will end up. Enjoy!

It was three am when they finally let Dan leave. He didn’t know how British hospitals worked, used to being brushed off and pushed aside by the harried nurses in D.C.--not that he had gone to a doctor, for a check-up or otherwise, in years. He preferred spending his short lunch hours frantically WedMDing his symptoms for whatever was ailing him, finding out it was probably fatal, and shrugging it off. 

But here in London the nurses were kind and smiled at him, and he knew it was because they were happy to help him, not because of his charming good looks. Those had gone out the window after his overconsumption of red bulls and disregard towards vetting that fuckwad Ray led him to spiral out of the Veep’s inner circle. His eyes were now bloodshot and his hands still shook, although luckily a lot less than eight hours ago, when he and Amy rode in the back of an old-timey taxi to the hospital.

It was drizzling outside, but Dan didn’t mind. It felt fitting that London wept for his loss of a job, since it was here in this city that everything went so horribly wrong. How did it go so horribly wrong? He opted not to wait under the taxi stand, but out in the open next to it, partly because he wanted to wash off some of the sweat and regret from the few days before, but also because there were two teenagers already under the taxi stand, lips locked and arms groping. Dan didn’t want to be anywhere near that. No thanks.

It took a full twenty seven minutes for a cab to arrive. Dan knew this because he had counted to sixty twenty seven times. It was on his twenty-eighth “fifteen” that a cab rolled up, its headlights shining beacons through the mist, a savior. He glanced for a moment at the teenagers, praying that they would make up their mind and, somehow, by the grace of god, one of them waved their hand at Dan, motioning for him to take the ride. Clearly, their work wasn’t done yet.

Stooping down into the taxi, Dan suddenly realized he had no idea where he was going. He had his wallet on him, and his phone, but that was it. The Veep’s camp left London a few hours ago--his phone’s calendar buzzed with their itinerary while he was still reeling from the day’s developments in his hospital bed--and he had hoped Amy had packed up his suitcase along with her own. He thought about texting her--”you got my stuff?”--maybe adding a wacky emoji with a tongue sticking out to symbolize that hey, everything’s cool, let’s just forget what all went down here today, but he didn’t. His bags were pointless now. Just a bunch of rumpled suits and folders with no-longer-pertinent information that someone definitely grabbed (whether it was a member of Selina’s team or a housekeeper, he didn’t give a shit any more), nothing he needed in the real world. He stopped himself, chastising himself for not including the Veep in with the real world. But he knew, deep down, that nothing about D.C. was real.

\----------

Dan opted for Gatwick Airport, partly because it was farther and he could pay for the cab fare on his soon-to-be-maxed-out credit card, but also because he wanted to close his eyes for a while before he needed to focus on what his next step would be. Despite what he had stressed to Amy, to Jonah (ugh), to himself, he had no idea what to do next. He bumped around in the back seat, trying to imagine himself somewhere, but nothing seemed to come to mind. Ah well, the voice in his head sighed, you’ll have a long flight back to figure it out.

The airport was sleepy, murmuring with bodies of people who had overnight layovers or missed connections, and Dan liked it that way. He bought a one-way flight to Dulles International, opting for a first class seat so he could stretch his legs out and begin plotting revenge on Selina. No, not revenge. It wasn’t the right word. Did he want to get back into her good graces? He wasn’t sure.

He wandered through the terminal for a few minutes, waiting until the clock struck four AM and the grates at the various airport bars were slid open. At 4:01, Dan’s ass was on a barstool and his mouth was ordering a whiskey ginger. The bartender gave him a look but didn't say anything, only began reaching for the Jameson until Dan grunted, shaking his head, pointing to the top shelf. He was going all-fucking-out.

After downing his first one in two sips, he rapped his knuckles on the bar like the asshole he was, gesturing to his glass. The bartender didn't have much to do, as Dan was the sole patron, so he got his refill, as well as a glower, quite expeditiously. Dan nursed this one a bit slower, wondering if the Veep had touched down yet.

He heard the barstool next to him squeak. Who the fuck would sit next to me right now? He ducked his head down, trying to avoid eye contact. But that was unnecessary, since the person next to him merely clapped his hands on Dan’s shoulders, digging his fingers into Dan’s clavicles.

“Dan, my boy! You’re going to be hungover for your flight.” _This can’t be happening._

\----------

Jonah spun around on the barstool. His massive legs knocked against the bar, jolting him to a stop, but he pulled his feet in and spun himself around one more time, hard. The third time, Dan stuck his arm out, grabbing his shoulder.

“Cease, you dumb fuck,” Dan muttered into his drink.

“Aw, Danny! Don’t be like that.”

Dan glared at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Why...the shit...are you not on Air Force 2?” Dan spoke slowly, drawing the words out, staring straight into his drink.

“Well, as you know, I don’t work for the Veep. We have that in common, now.” Jonah gave a high pitched laugh and raised his hand, prompting Dan for a high-five. After seeing Dan’s face, he gently lowered his arm.

Dan thought of a million questions he wanted to ask--why are you here? How did you find me? What’s the likelihood--the chances--he stopped himself. He didn’t want to think about these things: fate, or coincidence, or a fucked-up universe that kept putting fucking Jonah next to him. He finished his third or fourth drink (he’d lost count very quickly) and swayed.

“What time is food served here?” Dan semi-slurred. Jonah drummed on the bar along to whatever terrible song was playing. Boys crooned a slow song about someone not being able to fit into their jeans. For a moment, Dan tried to remember the last time he had worn jeans. His eyes drooped shut and he tipped off the barstool.

“Whoops!” Jonah grabbed him around the waist, catching him before he face planted on the shitty carpet. “How many of those have you had?”

Dan shrugged, putting all of his weight into Jonah’s arms. How have I not noticed how big his arms are before? Trying to find his footing, Dan glanced up at Jonah, trying to focus his eyes on one thing in particular, stop the world from spinning. And there they were, two glowing brown eyes, floating in front of him. Jonah blinked once, twice, his long eyelashes--does he use fucking mascara?--practically brushing his cheekbones.

“You ok there, pal?”

“I--” Dan caught himself before he fell any deeper. “Get the fuck off me, you ape.” He propped himself back up on the barstool, turning away from him and catching the eye of the bartender. “Hey man, you guys got any burgers? Fries--or, chips, I guess? God, this fucking country.” The bartender shook his head. “It’s 5 in the morning, mate.”

Dan looked into his glass, now full of melting ice. “This fucking country.”

Jonah was silent for a moment, slowly spinning back and forth on his seat like a goddamn seven year old. Dan considered drinking his ice, consuming all the possible alcohol his last seven pounds bought him, but then he heard the announcement for his flight over the intercom.

“Finally, I’m getting the shit out of this backwards place.” He threw his satchel over his shoulder and turned back to Jonah.

“Please, do not look me up in D.C. I don’t know you. I don’t care about you. You are dead to me--no, that means I have to be considerate and mourn for you. You are nonexistent. You have never existed. Farewell, Jonad.”

A few steps later, Dan heard the thundering sounds of elephant feet behind him.

“Mind if I walk to our gate with you? Thought you might need a friend to hold on to in case you get the spins again.” Dan shut his eyes, praying for this nightmare to end, but when he opened them, there he was: Jonah, the fuckwad, his dumb, stupid, beautiful eyes gazing down at him. Knowing that it couldn’t get any worse than this, Dan shrugged and the pair set off through the deserted terminal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They really should have taken a freighter.

Jonah lied. Well, he had lied many times before in his life. Most of the time it was out of desperation, like when he was 16 and told his mom that he didn’t wreck his car, that it was his cousin Sam. Which led to the first time his mom and his uncle didn’t speak for two months (during their adult life). And then there was in college, at the end of practically every semester, when he told every professor that he had a death in the family, or a sickening disease to get an extension on his papers. He lied to his frat brother Tom, saying he could speak Spanish. He took Tom’s final and failed it, bringing the two of them in front of their frat’s disciplinary committee. They were both going to be kicked out of the house, but Jonah’s grandfather donated another fifty grand and he was just given probation for a semester. Poor, poor Tom.

But this lie, this was one for the books. Specifically, the autobiography he could see himself writing, feet propped up on the desk in the Oval Office. Jonah’s lie sat in his chest, bubbling to come out and reveal itself. I turned down Air Force 2. There was an extra seat. I said no. For you.

But it wasn’t fate. Jonah didn’t believe in fate--”I make my own fate!” he shouted into the mirror every morning. After he fucked with Dan at his bedside in the hospital, he found Amy in the lobby. Before he could even ask her if they wanted to take shifts checking in on Dan, she offered him a seat on the plane, saying it was wheels up in sixty. She barely looked Jonah in the eye as she left, typing on her blackberry and giving him a tick of her eyebrow when he said he had a few more things he needed to do in London first. It was proof of how distracted she was that she didn’t insult him, didn’t feel the need to give him a demeaning nickname. She just waved two fingers and collapsed into a taxi, taking a phone call from who knows.

He sat in his uncomfortable hospital chair, folding limb over limb, eating sugary things he didn’t know the name of from a vending machine. He was surprised vending machines existed in London, figuring their weird shaped money wouldn’t work in one. Once again, he was proven wrong. It had begun to rain and Jonah was dozing when he heard Dan’s staccato speech asking the front desk person how he could get the fuck out of this country. The front desk person didn’t appreciate that.

And then Dan was out in the rain, shabby suit and shoulders sagging, and Jonah watched him from indoors. Dan caught a cab and Jonah did afterwards, knowing Dan would choose Gatwick over Heathrow. He didn’t know how he knew, he just felt it in his bones. He told his cab driver to just follow the other taxi on the road, like a goddamn spy. He was proud of being able to use that line.

He bought his first class ticket. He watched Dan shuffle through security. He smiled to himself when Dan frowned at the security agent who told him to take his shoes off. He found Dan in the bar. And now here they were. Knees pressed together, side-by-side, at their gate. Dan’s head flopped forward onto his chest, eyes fluttering closed. Here they were.

The flight wasn’t anywhere near full, especially in first class. Jonah asked a flight attendant if he could sit next to Dan, saying his friend was nauseous and he wanted Jonah near him. The attendant smiled, winked, and allowed Jonah to sit next to drowsy Dan. Drooly Dan. Three Whiskeys to the Wind Dan. While the attendant gave them the safety talk, Dan’s head fell onto Jonah’s shoulder. Despite himself, Jonah beamed.

\----------

Twenty minutes into the flight, Dan jerked awake. He haphazardly wiped dried drool off of his cheek, stretching out his neck from the crooked position he had been lying in. Jonah pretended not to notice him, not to feel the cool part of his shoulder where a small pool of drool still rested. He focused intently on pecking through the movies offered on the in flight screen, trying to find a good one.

“They got _Catching Fire_ here, man. Wouldn’t you like to have a crack at that?” He gestured towards Jennifer Lawrence’s Katniss on screen, drawing an arrow back as if to say try me, mother fucker.

“At...a starving, poor fictional teen revolutionary leader? Yeah Jonah, top of my list.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting to know her Katniss, if you know what I mean.”

“Jonah, I say this with the utmost contempt in my heart: you’re a fucking psycho.”

A cool voice came over the plane’s speakers.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen, this is Sasha, your head flight attendant. We’ve just received word from the captain that we will be changing course and touching down in Paris, France, at Charles de Gaulle Airport.” Dan shot a look at Jonah. Jonah read his expression, knowing that, behind the facade, Dan saw his life and his flight crashing before his eyes.

“We will be touching down safely and shortly in Paris. Thank you for your cooperation, we will provide information about your comped flight out of Paris at the gate desk.”

For a moment, the entire plane was silent. Then, there was a cough, a murmur, a baby wail. Fliers began to talk amongst themselves, beginning to formulate a new plan. Without a warning, Dan threw a punch at the seat in front of him. And then another. And another, punching away. The seat swayed forward and back, devoid of a resident to weigh it down.

“What are you doing?” Jonah asked, a frightened edge in his voice. He had never seen Dan this unhinged. Dan’s hands whopped the seat back, smacking Jonah on the arm on accident. Jonah felt a jolt of energy from where Dan touched him.

“What the...fuck!” Dan yelled in anger, startling a young couple behind him. “What the hell are we going to do in Paris?”

“I’m sure they’ll give us some sort of accommodation. One time my flight got delayed overnight from Tacoma to--”

Dan cut him off. “Jonah, no one gives a shit about your boy scouts trip.”

“Eagle scouts, actually.”

“WHO GIVES. A FLYING. FUCK. I’m not going to stay in some shoddy Comfort Inn on the side of the road next to a fucking airport. I’m going to stay somewhere more suitable to me.”

“Like where?”

“Like fucking Les Invalides.”

Jonah couldn’t figure out if the somersault in his stomach was from the plane landing or Dan’s knowledge of French history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I don't know how emergency plane landings work, and I am terrified of flying so I didn't want to google it and see the gritty details. I just wanted a reason for them to find themselves in Paris. Sorry if you're a stickler for reality!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite Yanks travel into the City of Love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not that I even need to say it at this point, but--I'm writing this completely as I go, so I have no idea what the plot will end up being. thanks for coming along on this ride with me.

Everything in Paris gleamed in the sunshine. Dan wished he could enjoy it, wished he didn’t have to spend his first time in this city with a towering nightmare named Jonah. Getting off the plane was a hassle, but it was nothing compared to the ticket window. DC women had nothing on the French female flight attendants, who pursed their lips at Dan and clacked away at their computers, finally telling him that non, sorry monsieur, there are no flights for two days. Deux jours. Deux. Dan tried to lean on the counter, flexing a bicep, hoping it showed through his suit jacket. Marie or Camille or whatever the fuck their names were didn’t fall for it. They batted their eyelashes back and told him that all flights were booked for another two days. Finally, after about five minutes of arguing in broken French, Jonah tugged on his arm.

“Let me speak to her,” Jonah murmured. In any other--literally any other--situation, Dan would have scoffed at him, insulted him, and turned back to the grown ups’ conversation. But here, in Paris, in the airport, Dan was drowning. He raised his eyebrows at Jonah, offering him the counter.

“Bonjour, madame, vous-etez bien?” The attendant’s entire body language changed. Her face softened and she smiled--smiled!--at Jonah.

“Oui, monsieur, je suis tres bien cette midi. Et vous?”

“Je suis bien mais un peu fatigué. Donc, pas de vols?” The words rolled off of Jonah’s tongue, making him sound confident and at home. Dan gawked at him, wondering what he was being possessed by. Where did he learn to speak fucking French like this? On and on Jonah and the attendant went, both laughing at things the other person was saying. After ten minutes of their jocular conversation, Jonah said “merci” and, grabbing Dan’s arm again, pulled him away from the counter.

“So--no flights until Monday.”

“I picked that up through her sneering at me. What the hell were you guys talking about?”  

“Oh, she asked me about my French--said I didn’t look like the type of guy to be fluent. I told her I studied abroad for a semester and got...quite familiar with the language.”

Dan didn’t press this statement, not wanting to know the details of Jonah’s college life. “What do we do now?”

“Oh, I’ve taken care of that.” Jonah grinned, bouncing on his toes with anticipation. “Claudette was kind enough to offer up her boyfriend’s apartment for the weekend.”

“Who the fuck is Claudette?”

“That attendant, Dan! No wonder she thought you were a barbaric American, you didn’t even ask her name.” Dan ignored the fact that Jonah and Claudette talked shit about him in front of his face.

“She wrote down his address, gave me the key code for the building, and said to ask for Lucien. That’s his gardien. What a gentille fille she is.”

Dan almost physically held his eyeballs in place, lest they roll out of his sockets and down the long stretch of shiny tile floor. He didn’t want to think about how, in less than 48 hours, he had tumbled from the Veep’s graces, been hospitalized, drunkenly fell asleep on Jonah’s shoulder, and now, now, now was standing in a foreign airport with an imbecile who, somehow, was able to sweet talk a French woman into letting them stay at her boyfriend’s apartment. What alternative universe was he living in?

“Come on, let’s get our luggage. It’ll be a long train journey into the city.” Dan was stunned. Train? He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken public transportation. Oh wait—it was last year, when the Veep wanted to seem “of the people” during their campaign stop in New Orleans. They rode on a street car for two stops, Gary swinging uncharacteristically from the pole near the back, until Selina got car sick from the rocking and she, Dan, and Amy got into the car that was following them.

It wasn’t until they got to the carousel that Dan remembered--he didn’t have any luggage. Jonah, on the other hand, dragged a massive backpacking pack off of the conveyor belt, hoisting it over a shoulder.

“Are you 19? Going on a backpacking Euro trip?” Dan spat, mostly out of reflex than anything else. He didn’t really care about Jonah’s suitcase choice. In fact, him wearing the backpack over one shoulder, shirt untucked and tie loosened, he looked almost, well, cute. Dan buried those feelings, giving himself a mental slap.

Jonah exchanged the few pounds he had left into Euros and then led Dan to the train ticket machines. Despite practically breaking out in hives just thinking about taking a train, he knew that he didn’t have enough money to pay for a taxi. Since Jonah was paying, Jonah got to choose the form of transportation.

The ride into Paris wasn’t terrible, all things considered. Dan sat in a window seat and promptly fell back asleep, Jonah keeping a protective eye out for any pickpockets. Dan was adamant that they were everywhere, having read an article about young children pressuring you into buying a bracelet and then cutting your pockets open, slicing your thigh in the process. Jonah laughed at that, his eyes crinkling. Dumb idiot. Still, he had offered to take the aisle seat, making sure nothing dangerous happened, while Dan leaned against the window and fogged up the glass with his steady, sleeping breathing.

From the train they took the metro, Jonah consulting the map hung at the underground platform, presumably acting like he knew where he was going.

“We’re on the wrong side,” he muttered to Dan, touching his elbow. Dan wrenched it away from him involuntarily. Jonah just stared for a minute, rolled his eyes, and turned, walking towards a tunnel that led to stairs which carried them up over the train tracks and down on the other side.

Their car was packed, pressing Dan and Jonah up next to each other. Two young women were near them, whispering not-so-quietly. Jonah smiled slyly and leaned into Dan’s ear.

“One of those girls thinks you’re very attractive,” he murmured, jutting his chin towards them. “The other one thinks you smell.” Dan snorted. For a second, he forgot who he was with, the situation he was in--instead, he just enjoyed the absurdity of everything. “I, on the other hand,” Jonah took a breath, “think your ripeness is quite becoming.”

Dan couldn’t help it. First one loud chuckle, then another, then, like a waterfall, he was doubled over, giggling like a four year old. He saw Jonah grinning, then his face falling, almost worried. Attendees in their car began to look at the crazy laughing man, one woman even pulling her child ever closer to her, protecting the kid from Dan. He was gasping for air through his loud guffaws. Tears formed in Dan’s eyes. He had never found his disaster of a life so fucking funny.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan naps, Jonah woos an old man, and both boys continue to drink.

“Dan? Hey, Dan?” Jonah raised his voice, not much louder than a whisper. The last thing he wanted to do was wake Dan, who had flung himself onto the bed as soon as they got into the cramped but home-y apartment in the 10th arrondissement. He had slept, snoring loudly, for two hours, barely moving. But now, Jonah was hungry, restless, and wanting to take advantage of their short time in Paris. Not--not in Paris together, just both in Paris. Both of them. Simultaneously. 

“Dan?” He tried again. Throwing aside any manners he might have, he picked up a shoe--a nice boot that looked like it had recently been meticulously shined--and chucked it at Dan’s head. Luckily, Jonah had always had terrible aim, and it only knocked the clock off of the bedside table. Still, it did the job, and Dan woke with a jolt.

“Heeeey buddy,” Jonah said sweetly, pretending he hadn’t just chucked footwear near his head. Dan smacked his lips together, looking around.

“So, this is a French apartment. I expected it to have a bit more…cigarette smoke. Or irony.” He blinked slowly at Jonah, his eyes focusing. Jonah stared back, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe, unsure of where they stood right now.

Getting to the apartment had been an absolute nightmare, with Dan fluctuating between spasms of crippling laughter and bouts of narcoleptic naps on the metro. They had to get off one train and get on another, then backtrack, since Jonah accidentally took them in the wrong direction for three stops. But finally, after an hour and a half, they found the apartment, hidden away on a small side street in a dingy neighborhood. They dodged dog poop and Dan scoffed at the general upkeep of the streets. They met the gardien, Lucien, a stooped old man who smiled toothlessly as Jonah politely said he was a friend of Clement, Claudette’s boyfriend. Lucien led them up five flights of stairs (“What, are they afraid of elevators here?” Dan railed a little bit too loudly as they climbed the winding staircase) and unlocked the door, ushering them into the apartment. As he left, he looked directly at Jonah and reminded him that if they needed anything, he lived on the ground floor. Lucien hadn’t needed to aim that reassurance at Jonah; by that point, Dan had zombie-walked into the bedroom, paying no attention to his surroundings.

After Dan had collapsed on the bed, Jonah turned on the TV and made coffee. And waited. He flipped through some French books on a bookshelf, realizing how weak his comprehension was. He needed to brush up, a lot. But still, Jonah was proud of how he had been able to get him and Dan from the airport to here. Too often, people doubted his abilities—or maybe he had been resting on his laurels, relying too much on connections and not enough on his skills. Because, despite what most people believed, Jonah did have skills. He was a charmer; not in the way Dan was, all smiles and compliments. On the contrary, he truly listened to people, perfecting the art of knowing how to say the things people wanted to hear even before they knew they wanted it.

But Jonah didn’t want to show that side of him. That side was considered weak in D.C., and he learned very early on that, despite most Americans wanting politicians and the political world to be all about hand-holding and reaching across the aisle, the inside world of D.C. destroyed people who weren’t willing to literally cut throats. So, he buried that aspect for a long time. He was glad it still functioned when he needed it.

“You hungry?” Jonah asked quietly. He had only just recently realized that he hadn’t eaten in hours, not since he was in the hospital, waiting for Dan. As if on cue, his stomach let out a low rumbling noise.

“Probably not as hungry as you are. Was that your stomach or an earthquake?” Dan’s jab—if you could even describe it as that—was weak and Jonah was glad. He didn’t have the energy to have a word-sparring match with Dan right now.

“Claudette rang while you were asleep—she suggested we go to a café down the street, said it makes an amazing potage soup.” Jonah lightly twitched the blinds open. “And that it’s aperitif time.”

“What’s an aperitif?”

“An alcoholic drink. Come on, let’s go eat.” Jonah watched Dan roll off the bed, attempt to stretch the wrinkles out of his shirt and jacket, and, ultimately, give up. The two of them trudged down the stairs and stepped out into the brilliant mid-morning, sun reflecting off the sidewalks and small cars parked on the street.

“I thought it was supposed to be dreary in Paris? Like, all the time?” Dan shielded his eyes, squinting up at Jonah.

“Nah, that’s a myth. You’ve got a lot to learn about this city.”

“Oh, what, _you’ll_ teach me something?”

Jonah shrugged. “Maybe. I can be a good teacher, y’know.”

Without looking at Dan, Jonah began walking briskly toward the busy street ahead, worried that if Dan saw his face, he would see the deep blush blooming across his neck and jawline.

\----------

“OK…OK, what’s a croque monsieur?” Dan sounded like he was chewing rocks when he tried to say French words. Jonah swallowed a loud laugh and tried to will the ache in his lower abdomen away. He didn’t want to hear Dan speak French. It gave him small goosebumps on his arms and the back of his neck. He didn’t want to feel that way.

“It’s basically a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. I bet you would like it.”

“What’s the difference between that and a croque madame?”

“A croque madame has an egg on top.” Dan looked at Jonah over his menu, trying to tell if he was joking. Jonah shrugged. “They’ve got a sense of humor here.” Dan gave him a half-smile, his eyes falling back to the words in front of him. For a moment, Jonah focused on Dan’s freckles—he’d never really seen them from this point of view, mid-morning light splashing across his face, highlighting his cheekbones, the light breeze fluttering his ruffled hair. Jonah allowed him to stare for one, two, three seconds, and then looked back down at his own menu.

They had found the café Claudette had recommended, Jonah requesting a small table outside, under the awning. They arrived right before lunch rush, and as the bored waiter brought them their first drinks—two kir royales, despite Dan insisting he only wanted hard liquor—a rush of middle aged French men filtered in, sitting in their unassigned-yet-regular seats. For a moment, Jonah was worried the two of them would be outed as frauds, recognized because they weren’t recognizable. A few moments after the men had settled, after they greeted each other and joked around like school children, Jonah released the breath he had been holding; it was fine. He and Dan would enjoy lunch as though they belonged.

“Vous etez pret?” The waiter had shown up without Jonah even realizing it. Dan’s eyes darted at Jonah, silently begging him to translate. Jonah wasn’t sure why—restaurants functioned the same way here as they did in America, as they did in nearly every country. Still, a small part of Jonah glowed with the fact that Dan was relying so heavily on Jonah.

He ordered for both of them, asking for another round of kir royales (he chose champagne over white wine because a) they were going to go all out this weekend and b) he liked the bubbles) and had to resist saying “keep ‘em coming.” He had been in France before, but he still wasn’t sure if that was a socially acceptable thing to say to anyone except the hot bartender at his fraternity’s favorite dive bar.

“So, what are we going to do today, tour guide?” Jonah was again reminded at how little the two of them had eaten in the past 12 hours. Dan had barely finished his kir and Jonah could already see his eyes going glassy, the alcohol hitting him hard and fast. He himself was starting to feel tingly and excited about their impending adventure.

“Well, I figured we could skip the main sights—Eiffel Tower, Mona Lisa, whatever. That shit is garbage compared to the Rodin museum.”

“Did you just call the Mona Lisa garbage?”

“You’re goddamn right I did.” Jonah was starting to feel like his old self again, marginally intoxicated and ready to fuck around. “Have you ever seen The Thinker?”

“What, the dude doing the—“ and here Dan scooted his chair out and struck the famous Thinker pose, bringing his brow down so he looked like a caveman. A few of the other patrons looked at them, but Jonah didn’t care.

“That’s the one. We can go see that and the Burghers of Calais—fucking tragic what happened to those guys.”

“They didn’t die, though, right?” Dan said it casually, but Jonah was stunned into silence. Dan was right—the burghers weren’t killed after all.

“Yeah, you’re right. They didn’t die. Near-tragedy, I guess.”

“Like my life.” This was the first time Dan had mentioned his situation. Worried he would spiral and get mean again, Jonah changed the subject hastily.

“So we can do that, and then walk to Les Invalides—since you showed such interest in it earlier—and then, I don’t know, dinner? Drinks? Dancing?” Jonah had thrown that last bit in as a joke, but Dan didn’t seem to think that. He tossed back half of his second kir and reached his arm out to Jonah. 

“Will your choice of venue be worse or better than the _awful_ metal show you took me to?” Dan’s tone was mean but his eyes crinkled, sparkling. Jonah almost let his mouth fall open, shocked that Dan mentioned that night; even more, the fact that Dan referred to it as something Jonah had _taken_ him to. Like a date. Had it been a date? If that had been a date, what the fuck was this? Jonah felt Dan’s eyes on him. How long had be been quiet? _Say something, you fucking idiot._

“Just because you didn’t understand their art…” Jonah began, but Dan cut him off with a sharp laugh. Whatever Dan thought about that night, at least he thought about it. That was enough for Jonah. And today, tonight, tomorrow, they would make more memories to joke about in the future. Jonah’s stomach ached again, but he didn’t try to make it go away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It rains in Paris.

As they left the café, Dan noticed that the sky, once pristine blue, was now a deep grey, threatening rain. He didn’t care. It was the first time in his adult life—maybe any part of his life—where he didn’t care about something like that; where he thought about his hair and his suit and his whole _presence_ and shrugged off the idea of it being ruined. The rain started drizzling as he and Jonah crossed a wide street. Jonah nudged him, nodding towards a metro station, asking him if he would rather go underground. Dan shook his head.

“Are you sure? It’s _raining_ , man.”

“I’m aware, idiot. I just…I’d like to walk.”

Jonah surveyed him for a moment, tilting his head to the side, looking down his nose at Dan. _He looks like a confused giraffe,_ Dan thought. “Walk?” Jonah said the word as if he had never considered it. Rain began to drip down his tousled curls into his eyebrows and eyelashes.

“Yeah, I mean, as long as it doesn’t start to rain too hard. It’s not like I care about this suit anymore.” He tugged at his suit jacket, feeling it become heavier with each drop of rain. In one swift move, he had removed the jacket. It was warm in the city and he didn’t feel the need for the jacket, both literally and metaphorically. He threw it onto the sidewalk, dampening in an ever-growing puddle.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Jonah reacted fast, grabbing the sopping wet and dirty jacket from the ground.

“I feel so free from the restraints of that straightjacket.” Dan stretched his arms wide, feeling the rain leak through his light shirt, down the nape of his neck, creeping into his shoes. Without thinking about it, he spun around on the sidewalk, aiming his face up towards the sky.

“Holy shit, you’ve actually lost your mind. I never thought I would witness this. I feel quite honored.”

Dan stopped spinning and looked at Jonah. He had never noticed how straight his posture was, how wide his shoulders were, leading down to his trim waist. His eyelashes, yes, he had noticed them before, and his deep brown eyes, but he had never really looked into them; he had never thought much about, well, thinking about Jonah.

“I haven’t lost my mind. I think I’m finally…where I need to be.” Jonah just blinked at Dan. “Come on, Jonad. Let’s go enjoy some fucking _art_.”

Dan began to walk, but he shortly realized that he didn’t hear Jonah’s familiar shuffle one step behind him. Turning around, he saw Jonah rooted to the spot next to where he had just been standing. “What’s up?”

Jonah’s fists were balled and he closed his eyes. “No Jonad.”

“What?” Dan walked back to him, the rain distorting sound.

“While we’re here. No calling me Jonad. No mocking my height, no making fun of me in front of other people.”

“So I can make fun of you while we’re alone?” Dan sidled up next to Jonah, almost wanting to wrap his arms around Jonah. Almost.

“No! Fucking…no making fun of me. Just be nice to me. No one will ever know that you were nice to me, and when we go back to D.C. you can shit all over me again. Just…in this city, let’s make a peace treaty.”

“This is a great city for that.”

“I’m fucking serious, Dan!” Was Jonah nearing tears, or was that just the rain? It freaked Dan out to even think about Jonah crying, so he backed off.

“OK. Yes. We’ll have a truce while we are here. I will be nice to you and make sure not to hurt your feelings. Sound good?” Jonah took a deep breath, raindrops sliding down the slope of his nose. For an instant ( _and this is probably the kir talking_ , Dan convinced himself), he wanted nothing more than to lick the rain off Jonah’s nose. Dan shook himself like a dog and Jonah laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing, you just looked really…” Jonah trailed off. A squat man ran past the two of them, holding a broken umbrella over his head. As he reached the metro station entrance, he dumped the umbrella on the ground, unsteadily charging down the stairs. Dan watched him, feeling acutely aware that Jonah was staring at him.

After a brief moment of silence, Dan turned back to Jonah. “Shall we go to this museum, sir?” Dan didn’t want Jonah to finish describing how he looked. However it was, he didn’t care how Jonah felt about it. _At the end of the day, it’s still just fucking Jonah._ Dan caught himself. Not fucking Jonah. Just fucking…Jonah. He shook his shoulders again. 

“Let’s take the metro. I’ve got a couple of extra train tickets and this rain is not fun.” Dan nodded intensely, thanking every deity that Jonah didn’t know how to read minds. _It’s just the city. It’s the rain. It’s the alcohol. It’s all of these things combined that have made me think about chewing Jonah’s eyebrows off. Those bushy fucking caterpillars, I hate them so goddamn much_.

Focused on destroying his rising feelings for Jonah, Dan took the metro steps too fast and, five steps from the bottom, felt his feet slipping out from underneath him. He yelped, reaching for anything, knowing for sure that this was how he died, when he felt Jonah’s arms grab him under the armpits, hoisting him up and practically carrying him the rest of the way. He was in a daze, feeling briefly the muscles in Jonah’s forearms— _does he play tennis, or is that just from jerking off?_ —before he was set down, out of harm’s way and in front of a bench. He fell into the seat, leaning back against the cool wall.

“You really can’t hold your alcohol, can you?” Jonah loomed over him, dripping rain onto his pants.

“Fuck you, I barely drank anything. I can take care of myself, it’s fucking slippery.” Dan knew instantly that he had taken the wrong tone, or said the wrong thing, or exhaled the wrong air. His stomach clenched and he suddenly felt hot.

Jonah took a step away from Dan, then turned and walked a few yards away from him, down the platform. After a moment, he turned around and strode back to Dan with purpose in his step.

“You know what, Dan? I did fucking _everything_ for you today. I helped you get on the plane. I helped you get _off_ the plane. I let you drool on me while we were ON the plane. I translated for you, I navigated for you, I let you fall asleep in the bed even though I’ve been awake since you were admitted at the hospital. All you’ve done is smirk and snore and call me mean names. All fucking day.”

The 3 train roared into the tunnel, shaking Dan’s bones. Jonah let out a big sigh as riders began to approach the slowing cars. Dan looked into Jonah’s eyes, seeing for the first time how hurt Jonah was, how much effort he had put into making sure they were taken care of today. All Dan had done was complain and fuck around.

“You’re…you’re right, sorry, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have taken that tone with you.” And then, after a brief pause, Dan finished. “Thanks…thank you for catching me. For being there.”

Jonah put his hand on the wall and leaned down, close to Dan’s ear, as the train doors slid open.

“I’ve always been there, you fucking asshole.” Jonah turned and boarded the nearest car, finding a seat away from the window, refusing to look back.

Dan didn’t stand up until three trains later. He hoped Jonah was waiting for him on the next platform.

\----------

Jonah was there, standing directly in front of where Dan’s car stopped. Jonah embarked and, wordlessly, sat next to Dan. He looked at Jonah’s hands, folded modestly in his lap. Dan’s arm twitched and for a second he longed to hold Jonah’s hand, intertwining their fingers. But he stopped himself, and instead cocked his head to the side, glancing up at Jonah’s face. His eyes were downcast, staring at his own feet. He could see that Jonah’s eyes were bloodshot and could practically count the just-wiped tears still staining his cheeks.

Why was Jonah acting this way? Who gave a shit that Dan didn’t kiss the ground he walked on? They had been at odds for as long as he could remember, from the first day he had seen Jonah ambling into the Veep’s office. At this point, it was just The Way Things Were.  

And yet, he had made a peace pact with Jonah for the length of their Paris trip. He was supposed to be kinder. And didn’t he want to be kinder to Jonah? If he didn’t, why did his stomach flip every time they made eye contact? Why did his throat close whenever Jonah smiled? _Why did he want to hold his fucking hand_?

Dan didn’t have time to get an answer. As the train slowed into a station, Jonah tapped him with the back of his hand.

“Come on, we’re getting off.” Without looking at Dan, Jonah rose and cautiously made his way to the door, looking like a drunk baby. Dan snorted—not out of malice, but because of how cute Jonah looked. And he did look cute. A small voice in Dan’s head told him, ever so briefly, to shout to the other riders about how cute Jonah was looking. Before he could say anything, though, the train slammed to a stop, throwing Dan into Jonah’s back. His hands reached for something—anything—to grab on to, to break his fall. In a swift move, almost anticipating Dan’s fall, Jonah spun around and reached an arm out, grabbing Dan around the waist. _His wingspan is truly impressive_. The train came to a halt and Dan righted himself. Jonah gave him a curt nod and exited their car. In a moment, he was swept up into the crowd heading for the 13 line. Shaking his head, Dan hastily followed. He vowed that if Jonah touched him again like that, he would either punch him or kiss him—he wasn’t sure which.

They found each other at the 13 platform, Dan easing up next to him, gingerly bumping his hip with Jonah’s. Jonah looked briefly at him and rolled his eyes.

“You still mad at me?” Dan tried to give Jonah his best apology face—not that easy for a guy who rarely apologized despite almost always being in the wrong. Still, Jonah gave him a brief nod and uncrossed his arms. “Great, because I don’t know what I would do at the Rodin museum without you explaining the sculptures to me.”

“You’d figure it out, you’re a smart guy.”

“Sure, but it wouldn’t be _fun_.” The train came roaring into the station and Jonah glanced at Dan as he approached the platform.

“Well, by all means, let’s go have some fun.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get cultured.

The biggest problem, Jonah thought to himself as they approached the Rodin museum, is that Paris truly was a city for lovers. It was like those reality shows about finding love; those people probably didn’t have more than lukewarm feelings for the bachelor or bachelorette, but the heightened sense of desiring love and affection made everyone go practically insane in their quest to be the chosen one. That’s all that was happening with  Dan now. That had to be it.

Because what other explanation could there be for his bubbling feelings? He felt Dan’s arm brush his forearm and it practically sparked with energy. It hadn’t always been this way. What had changed? The only possible answer would be, of course, _Paris_. It had that affect on him when he studied abroad and met Simone, and it was having that affect on him now.

The rain had stopped and the streets of the 7th arrondissement were steaming. The sun peeked through the trees lining the street and it was turning into a beautiful afternoon. Jonah’s heart began to beat harder and faster at the anticipation of showing Dan the museum. He had always had an appreciation for sculpture, for the energy and emotion it possessed, and a small part of him longed to pour over the sculpture books back at his Adams Morgan apartment with Dan. While they drank beers. And sporadically made out. Maybe.

“What’s your favorite?” Dan asked curtly. Jonah had been so caught up in his thoughts, in deliberately not touching Dan, that it took him a moment to realize Dan was talking to him.

“Uh…I’ll point it out to you when we see it.” Dan gave him a puzzled look as they pushed through the doors in the museum lobby and out into the garden.

“Holy shit. This is beautiful.” They stood at the top of the steps, Dan surveying the vast stretch of flowers and sculptures ahead of them, Jonah watching Dan. “Well, I guess lead the way, pal.” Jonah twitched at the word “pal” and how friendly and platonic it was. Not that he was expecting anything, that would be insane, but the sharpness of the “p” sound reverberated in his ears as they descended the steps.

Jonah led the two of them through mazes of rose bushes, finally finding The Thinker statue. Much to his disbelief, Dan’s eyes brightened.

“Would it be lame to take my picture in front of it? Y’know, doing the pose?”

“I don’t think so,” Jonah said, laughing. “You’re really good at it, it only makes sense.”

And just like that, all inhibitions about being in a foreign land or being sworn enemies were gone. Dan and Jonah took turns taking photos of each other in front of the sculpture, even as they heard other visitors grumbling. After The Thinker, they found The Gates of Hell (“Or as I call it, Selina’s Office Door,” Dan said, deadpan, causing Jonah to laugh so hard he began to cough) and The Burghers of Calais.

“Is it weird that I’m hungry looking at this?” Dan questioned as they circled the statue slowly. He seemed to have completely forgotten their fight, and his oddness in the rain, and his loss of a job. To Jonah, he seemed, finally, content.

“It’s not those kind of Burghers, dummy.” Jonah jabbed him in the ribs and Dan yelped. A guard looked at the two of them and they hastily moved on.

“Let’s go inside, there’s one more sculpture I want to find.” Jonah nodded towards another small building. Once inside, he remembered how rare air conditioning was in this city, and was cognizant of how his shirt was sticking to his back. _Maybe I’ll take it off, like Dan did with his jacket_. He considered mentioning that to Dan, but held his tongue.

They turned a corner and Jonah let out a small gasp. There it was: The Kiss. Two bodies in marble wrapped around each other, holding on to one another for dear life. There was very little explanation for this sculpture, but it didn’t need one; it didn’t matter who those models were or what Rodin’s inspiration was. The only thing one needed to know, to feel, was the passion between those two people.

Bodies parted and Dan and Jonah floated towards the sculpture. Dan began wandering around it to the left, while Jonah circled the work on the right side. Meeting on the other end, they didn’t acknowledge each other, merely stopping side by side.

Almost not noticing what was happening, Jonah felt something brush his pinky, then tighten around all of his fingers. He looked down and saw Dan’s hand squeezing his own. Dan kept his face pointed ahead, eyes boring into the two bodies entangled, but his neck was bright red, giving himself away. Jonah couldn’t help but smile and interlaced his fingers with Dan’s and squeezed. They stood there, rooted to the spot, until a guard told them the museum was closing. If it were up to Jonah, they would have stood there forever.

\----------

Stepping outside, it was like the spell had been broken. Their hands unlatched and Jonah genuinely wasn’t sure who initiated it. Maybe it wasn’t initiated, maybe it just happened. He was sad to see it happen—or, feel it, more like. Still, despite no longer being attached, he still felt as though they were connected by an invisible string; he didn’t navigate where they were going, but they nevertheless moved as one unit, taking turns down side streets that neither one acknowledged, winding their way through the residential neighborhood that put D.C.’s tree-lined streets to shame.

They found Les Invalides just as the sun broke through a large rain cloud, making the whole city glow in one last shine before the evening settled in. The lawn spread out in front of them, the golden dome glowing in the sun. Jonah heard Dan sigh a quiet “fuuuuck” as they stared at the enormous building.

“Look, right beyond those trees, you can see the Eiffel Tower.” Jonah pointed off to one side, his face getting close to Dan’s and breathing him in.

“I thought you said the Eiffel Tower was bullshit.”

“Well, don’t look at it if you don’t want to.” Dan grinned at this and followed Jonah’s finger off into the distance. “Although, we could get a crepe over there if you wanted…”

“We just ate!”

“That was like, four hours ago. I’m a growing boy, Daniel!” Jonah looked at Dan one more time, wanting to wrap his arms around him, but instead just set off across the street.

“Wait. Wait! Jonah! Hang on!” Dan skipped every few steps to catch up with him. Jonah was almost _enjoying_ making Dan constantly trying to keep up with him, following him and relying on him. He had been genuinely angry in the metro station, frustrated with the fact that he never seemed to, not even win, but sustain, when it came to Dan’s needs. And yet, he wasn’t mad at Dan. Not then, and definitely not now. There was no one he would rather be on this journey with, and one small hiccup did not make Jonah regret any choice he had made. He just needed to make Dan work for his approval for a bit longer.

Jonah continued to stride purposefully towards the Eiffel Tower, knowing exactly where he was. During his time spent studying abroad, he had practically lived over here—at first because it was the only area he could find (the tower even sent out a beam of light every night, not unlike a lighthouse)—but later because of Simone, and then Mathieu, and then Simone and Mathieu. He may not have any luck with women—or men—in the U.S., but he cleaned up in Paris. He still wasn’t sure whether he should disclose that information to Dan. It might make it too messy.

Children charged down the pathway at Champ de Mars, nearly colliding with Jonah at every turn. The spring rain had cooled down the city considerably, but the final rays of the day kept Jonah warm. He heard feet pounding on the dirt behind him, and turned to see Dan, panting, running up behind him.

“Hey there Jolly Green J—Giant.” Jonah was happy that Dan had caught himself and stopped from saying “Jizzface.” That nickname stung more than most. “You’re stride is insane.”

“Yeah, my gym banned me from using the ellipticals because I kept breaking them. Pushing them too hard.” Dan bent over, but whether it was from laughter or lack of breath, Jonah wasn’t sure. He was going to take it as Dan laughing with him, not at.

They started walking again, shoulder to shoulder. A few times Jonah felt his fingers brush Dan’s arm, or hand, or— _fuck_ —thigh, but he was sure it was just a fluke. There was no way Dan was aware or, if he were, happy. _But he held my hand!_ Jonah argued with himself. _That_ , a rational voice said, _was caused by The Kiss._ It was hard not to feel amicable feelings about _anyone_ when looking at that sculpture. Maybe.

The sky was turning pink as Dan and Jonah approached the Eiffel Tower. It glimmered in the setting sun and— _there it was again!_ —Jonah was certain he felt Dan’s pinky brush his. This wasn’t fair. His head ached from desire of wanting to touch Dan, run his fingers over Dan’s forearms, feel his hair stand on end. But they kept walking, families weaving around them.

“So there it is,” Dan breathed, looking up at the towering structure in front of them.

“Yup. There it is.” A man strolled around, stopping at different picnicking parties, asking them if they would like to buy wine. A group of obviously American students laughed loudly and pooled their money together, purchasing a warm bottle of white wine. They cheered as one boy pried the cork out sans wine opener.

“So, food?” Dan asked after a moment of silence.

“Just like that?”

“Well, I mean, it’s cool. But you’re hungry, right? And I’ve seen this before.”

“Not in real life!”

“Eh, it’s about the same. I’d rather—“ Dan stopped short. Jonah looked at him, raising his eyebrows. “I’d rather…grab something to eat with you.”

“You’d rather eat food—with me!—than hang out and look at the Eiffel Tower, one of the Seven Wonders of the World?”

“I don’t think it _is_ one of the Seven Wonders of the World, Jonah.”

“Well, it might as well be.”

“Then yes. I would rather get some crappy food than look at this thing.”

“I don’t know if crappy food exists in Paris.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to eat somewhere delicious.” Dan paused, thinking, then asked, “What about Montmartre?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet some locals and have a nighttime picnic.

Dan wished he knew about Montmartre because he was knowledgeable about the Belle Epoque or had known about the Sacre Coeur. But really, he wanted to visit Montmartre because he loved _Moulin Rouge_ so much. This was not something he said out loud, to anyone, ever, so when Jonah had guessed Dan wanted to visit the neighborhood so he could “harness the pain of Van Gogh,” he happily confirmed.

They drifted through the 16th arrondissement, pointing out their dream apartments. Jonah was so educated on the neighborhood, Dan wouldn’t have been surprised if he found out Jonah was fucking a French woman in this neighborhood. Every once in a while, Jonah would see a corner market or a school yard or a fucking street sign and get slightly misty eyed, going quiet, forgetting where he was. Dan snapped him back into the present, stepping on a foot or nudging him with an elbow. They reached the Charles de Gaulle-Etoile metro stop, rode the 2 as it got more and more crowded, then disembarked at Anvers.

Anvers and its neighborhood couldn’t have been more different than where they had gotten on the metro; the streets bustled with bohemian artists ( _not real ones, though_, Dan thought. _Not Ewan McGregor_ ) and working class residents getting home from their jobs. Dan stayed close to Jonah, keeping an eye on the broad back bobbing in front of him and a hand on his wallet in his front pocket. He regretted not buying a fanny pack that would go under his shirt. If he got pickpocketed, it would be his own damn fault.

The sun was almost all the way set as they wound through narrow, crooked streets. Jonah seemed to know where he was going, so Dan didn’t say anything. Even if he had wanted to say something, Dan couldn’t catch his breath enough to utter two words. How was he so out of breath? Didn’t he run all the time? _Maybe it’s the air here_ , Dan supposed. He knew that wasn’t it, though. He had been practically breathless all afternoon, after losing Jonah and then finding him again, after going to a museum and seeing that sculpture—that fucking sculpture! No art had ever overpowered him the way that had, and seeing those bodies woven around each other made his stomach tie itself into knots. He had never instinctively reached for someone’s hand before; usually it was because he knew that’s What He Should Do, but it was something about that museum, that piece of art, his damp shirt, Jonah’s deep breathing next to him, and boom: he had grabbed Jonah’s hand. He didn’t regret it, for sure. He had felt Jonah bumping into him, whether it was on purpose or simply magnetism, since they had left the museum. Still, he didn’t think it was a good idea to pursue him. It was _Jonah_ after all. They would just get a bite to eat, Dan would hum “Come What May” (under his breath, of course, so Jonah wouldn’t recognize it for what it was), and then they would go home. In a taxi, preferably. Put this day, and these thoughts, behind him.

Jonah seemed to have another thing planned. After turning down cramped streets, winding up and down, climbing flights of stairs that didn’t seem to end, Jonah stopped so abruptly that Dan ran into his back. Jonah’s musk filled his nose and—did he detect Axe body spray? _Ugh, Jonah truly is the worst_.

“Well, here we are!” What Jonah gestured to was, in Dan’s opinion, a literal hole in the wall. A few chairs and tables were scattered with no particular layout in mind, precariously balanced on the edge of the sidewalk. At any moment one of the diners could tip onto the tiny street where motorcyclists continuously zipped by. Grabbing Dan’s forearm—and then promptly dropping it—Jonah led the two of them into a dark, dank room. A few candles flickered on tables as a smattering of patrons chattered away. In a corner, a man with an upright bass was laughing loudly at the bar, drinking a cloudy, yellow drink. All in all, it looked like a place where one would more likely than not contract tetanus.

“We’re eating…here?” Why had Dan let Jonah choose the place they ate? The last time he had picked the place, Dan had been subjected to a “fuckton” of bread. And now, they would both be _for sure_ coming down with food poisoning.

“Of course we aren’t eating here.” Dan breathed a sigh of relief at this. “We are getting some food to go and eating on the steps of the Sacre Coeur.”

“You can get take out in a French restaurant? That doesn’t seem right. I feel like that’s too convenient for them.”

“You can if you know the right people.”

A crooked old man shuffled over to them, smiling widely. Dan did a double take, thinking at first that it was the actual real Merlin approaching them. He thought about saying a biting remark, but held his tongue. This wasn’t his place, and these definitely weren’t his people.

“C’est Jonah?” The old man wheezed.

“Monsieur Barret!” Jonah stooped forward and swept the man into a hug. Dan gaped. How was Jonah the anti-Jonah in this country?

Monsieur Barret gave the two of them menus, but Jonah barely glanced at his before handing it back. Dan, on the other hand, squinted in the low lighting. Everything listed seemed complicated and undercooked. He sighed.

“Why don’t we just get McDonald’s and call it a night? I can’t even try to pronounce half of these things.”

“We can’t eat _McDonald’s_ in Montmartre! That’s practically blasphemous! Legends have eaten here, Daniel."

“You consider Bobby Flay a legend.”

“Sorry for thinking that a celebrated chef, author, and restaurateur is a legend. But I meant, like, Picasso. Matisse.” Jonah looked Dan up and down. “Ewan McGregor.”

“Well, if it’s good enough for—who was it, ‘Ewan’?—then I guess I’ll give it a shot.” As hard as he tried, Dan couldn’t suppress the grin spreading across his face.

\----------

“I’m gonna be drunk.” Jonah smiled at Dan sloppily. His lips were stained red and made Dan’s buzzed brain think how the shape and width of them were now highlighted. Then Jonah’s smile spread wider, showing his teeth, and Dan saw a small piece of lettuce wedged between his canine and whatever tooth was behind that. _Of fucking course_ , Dan thought. _This child can’t eat a meal without getting it stuck somewhere_.

“How was your fish?” Jonah continued. It took Dan a moment to realize that this sentence required a response from him, and he racked his brain for words to string together that didn’t involve propositioning his coworker. _Ex-coworker_.

“Surprisingly, wasn’t bad. The wine helps.” Dan tossed back the rest of his glass and held it up for Jonah, who shortly refilled it from one of the many bottles they had purchased at an épicerie down the road.

Despite receiving their food a mere ten minutes after ordering, it took Dan another twenty-five to drag Jonah by the arm out of the restaurant. Jonah was blathering in French to not only Monsieur Barret, but also two emaciated looking waiters, a heavy-lidded young woman downing glass after glass of absinthe, and the bass player of the band in the corner After much convincing, they finally left, Jonah’s eyes sparkling with excitement.

“That was lovely. I love seeing old friends, don’t you?” Jonah whacked Dan on the back, almost causing him to drop their recently-acquired dinner.

“Lovely? Who _are_ you in this country?” Jonah didn’t respond, merely looking at him for a moment, winking, then turning briskly and heading off up another loopy, hilly street. Dan trotted after him, watching streetlights flicker on and hearing the hum of the evening begin.

“One more stop, and then the Sacre Coeur is ours.” Jonah jerked his head towards a small store with fruit and vegetables on trays outside. “No French meal is complete with out du vin.” Dan didn’t speak French, but he figured out quite easily what that meant. Jonah squeezed in the tiny doorframe while Dan chose to stay outside, smelling the evening air. It smelled a lot like cigarettes. Five minutes later, Jonah emerged, triumphantly, with a bag of potato chips, plastic cups, and three giant bottles of wine.

“I figured we should get red, because white should be on ice, and—“ Jonah gave Dan a serious look—“where we’re going, we don’t _need_ ice.” Dan practically turned on his heel and left Jonah right then, hailing a cab and going straight towards the airport a day early. Instead, he merely rolled his eyes and Jonah laughed.

“OK, it’s right up here…” Jonah said slowly, turning a corner. And then, there it was. Glowing yellow in the rapidly darkening sky, the Sacre Coeur sat like a beacon on a mountain, beckoning all young lovers— _or,_ said Dan’s brain, _just two guys who work together and are stuck in this country_. Jonah and Dan ascended the steps up to the top, Dan suddenly filled with energy. His heart swelled at the view and he finally allowed himself to feel some joy and excitement at spending this evening with Jonah, in Paris, at this church. Everything seemed right and calm.

So they sat and began to eat on the grassy area south of the church. Young French couples lounged all around them, literally feeding each other picnic treats. Dan’s face felt hot and he immediately opened wine.

“Good thing you got a twist off bottle, right? Really sprang for the top-shelf stuff.”

“Only the best for you, Danny.” Jonah winked and Dan felt his breath catch in his throat. He made the decision, right there, to go with whatever would happen that night. He was having too much fun.

They drank. And ate. Their food was finished long before the wine was, and it seemed to have hit Jonah a lot sooner than it did Dan.

“I’m gonna be drunk.” Jonah repeated after refilling Dan’s cup.

“You said that already.” Dan glanced sideways again at Jonah, watching him fall backwards into the cool grass. Jonah rocked slowly side to side, sighing deeply.

Turning to look at Dan, Jonah suddenly asked, out of the blue, “You know what I don’t get about you?”

“Oh, do tell.” Dan relaxed onto one elbow, bringing him closer to Jonah’s level. The wine he had just guzzled began to make its way to his head, swimming along up the back and making everything go just a bit fuzzy.

“You like me.” Oh dear. This was not what Dan had in mind when he thought to go along with whatever happened. He figured there would be some drinking, some giggling, maybe even some hand holding; but none of this, this _acknowledging feelings_.

“What makes you think that?” Dan attempted to screw up his face in a casual-yet-confused way.

“Please. You are here, in front of the Sacre Coeur, eating questionable fish—“

“You said it was a reputable restaurant!”

“Who knows where they got their fish! Anyway, here you are, lying on grass at night, getting drunk in public. When was the last time you did that?”

“I don’t know, I think once when I was trying to date this girl who worked for the DOD we went to the Washington Memorial—“

“And that’s another thing! You have _barely_ mentioned work. Seriously, it’s almost always on the tip of your tongue, if not filling your whole mouth—" 

“What’s this about my mouth?” Dan’s interruption caught Jonah off guard. His mouth dropped open, leaving him at a loss for words for a moment. He recovered swiftly and continued.

“This whole afternoon, you have been completely silent about work, or the Veep.”

“So?”

“So…doesn’t that mean something _else_ must be on your mind?” Jonah poked Dan slowly in the ribs with his cup.

“I—yes, as a matter of fact, that is something else I’ve been thinking about.” Was he going to say it? It would be so easy to tell Jonah, to blurt out all of the thoughts he had had all day and evening. Jonah tapped his fingers on the ground expectantly.

“Have you always been using Axe body spray so heavily, or is it just more noticeable now that we are farther away from your den of sins in DC?” Dan could only marginally make out Jonah’s face in the flickering streetlights placed at the top of the hill, but even still, Dan knew that Jonah was let down.

“Awesome. OK, by all means, please keep insulting me.” Jonah propped himself up on his arms, putting him eye-to-eye with Dan. “You can suppress those feelings verbally as much as you want, but I know you grabbed my hand today, Dan. I know that you aren’t actually this Iceman, unfeeling and calculating when it comes to relationships with other people.” He gingerly lay back down, folding his hands on his chest. “I know that you like me.”

And that was it. Dan was exhausted of pretending to resent Jonah, so fucking beat from trying to stop his instincts. His attempts to keep himself away from Jonah’s body, Jonah’s mouth, were almost completely depleted. Jonah lay in the grass, breathing slowly, eyes fluttered closed. Dan made up his mind as Jonah exhaled, and on his next inhale, Dan leaned in close, making sure to not touch Jonah anywhere. He wanted his mouth to surprise Jonah’s mouth.  


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8-)

Jonah had given up as Dan had finished his meal, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before he chugged wine. Nobody who really wanted to spend time with him would be so bent on getting that drunk. Jonah, on the other hand, sipped his wine as attractively as one could, knowing full well that it was staining his mouth and teeth like it always did. 

He didn’t want to confront Dan. He was resigned to the fact that they would eat, drink, then grab a cab (his treat, as everything in this goddamn city was turning out to be) back to the apartment. He would suggest maybe they grab a movie in the afternoon and then just go back to Charles de Gaulle, get two hotel rooms near the airport. Preferably in different hotels.

That was before he had closed his eyes, lying back in the grass, feeling the coolness of the night wrap around him after the rainy, humid day. It was before Dan had given him a dig about his choice of cologne, and it was _definitely_ before he felt Dan’s breath on his lips, about to make contact.

Taken aback, Jonah flew to a sitting position, smacking his head with Dan’s. They both instantaneously rolled on the grass holding their foreheads.

“What the fuck—were you doing?!” Jonah cried.

“I…I don’t know! I thought you wanted me to do that!”

“That was—I mean, that is—it’s not what I had pictured!” Jonah’s head thundered as if a cartoon bird had slammed cymbals on either ear.

“Sorry that I’m not, y’know, Cyrano or whatever.” Dan mumbled, rubbing his temples.

“Cyrano used his _words_ to woo a woman. So, no, you’re definitely not him.”

“I knew this was a mistake. I fucking knew it. My entire brain was screaming ‘Stop! Stop!’ and yet I still tried it. This is what I get.” Dan rose, took a shot at walking, and tumbled forwards.

“Wha—shit! Dan!” Jonah leapt from his lounged state and dashed forward, grabbing Dan’s shirt before he plummeted the rest of the way down the hill. Completely drunk at this point, he only was able to stop Dan from plunging before he, too, was back on the ground, awkwardly crouched next to the lean man, a fistful of his shirt still in Jonah’s hand.

“Will you ever stop saving me and just let the final destination prophecy come true?” Dan slurred. His eyes twinkled, reflecting the stars.

“Nope,” Jonah breathed, bending over Dan.

And there it was. Their mouths collided, Jonah balancing himself on one arm as he slid his other under Dan’s back, lifting him off the dewy grass. He tasted wine on Dan’s lips, felt heat from his breath. Dan had immediately kissed him back, apparently finally giving in to whatever resistance he had felt or thought.

After a few moments of clumsily being wrapped around each other, Dan seemed to regain the ability to move his legs and he pushed Jonah onto his back, taking the power stance. They barely broke apart as Dan pressed his chest into Jonah’s. Jonah could feel Dan’s heart beating through his shirt, racing erratically. Lying back on the ground, Jonah could feel Dan’s hands tracing his chest through his shirt. If he were a little drunker, he would have ripped his own shirt off, then Dan’s. But a voice in his head told him, through all of this kissing, that their clothes needed to stay on. At least, they needed to for as long as they were in public.

“Ooh, les amoureux!” A voice cracked through the silence. Dan broke away, looking around wildly. Two young men stood at the top of the hill, gazing down at them. “Get a room!” one cried in broken English. They laughed loudly. Without thinking or looking, Jonah threw up his middle finger, cursing them in his mind for stopping this moment.

“Mais, qu’est-ce que t’as fait?” the smaller boy exclaimed.

“Shit, fuck, Jonah!” Dan said, scrambled up, stumbling backwards a bit but holding his stance. “Why did you do that?” Jonah craned his head around, looking towards where the boys had been standing. Only, they were now charging down the steps, angrily shouting words in French that Jonah couldn’t even begin to process.

In an instant, Jonah had gathered up the last bottle of wine, snatched Dan’s hand unromantically, and jerked him down the hill. He was practically cantering down the slope, Dan tripping behind him but keeping up.

They tore onto the sidewalk and down a narrow, dark street, hearing the echoes of two people behind them. Jonah wouldn’t let up, lugging Dan behind him despite hearing his desperate puffs for oxygen. He wasn’t about to let the best night of his life turn into a hate crime experience.

Jonah didn’t have time to analyze what had happened in the last thirty minutes. The little voice in his brain told him that it wasn’t over, he would get a round two, but he was certain that it had been a fluke, it was the wine, it was the setting, it was Dan being a broken man. He had taken advantage of him, and he would pay.

Turning a corner, they met a wall of people. _Finally!_ , Jonah thought triumphantly. Dropping Dan’s hand now that they were in public, it only took a moment to feel a slender palm on his back, between his shoulder blades. Dan. He turned around, peeking at Dan, who nudged him forward.

“Keep walking you idiot. We are twenty feet away from getting the shit kicked out of us.” That was all the prompting Jonah needed. He weaved between small clusters of Parisians, who drank and laughed and, most importantly, completely ignored the two sweaty, drunk idiots stumbling through the crowd. Jonah’s back burned where Dan’s hand rested, ever so lightly, but he blocked it from his mind. He needed to put space between them and their new friends.

They walked one block, then two, before Jonah decided that he could start breathing normally again. He kept walking, feeling rather than seeing Dan behind him, until, without warning, he felt a tug on his shirt.

Dan pulled Jonah into a dark alcove, which housed the entrance to a small, upscale clothing store. Without thinking, Dan tugged Jonah’s face towards his, pausing as their mouths hovered within an inch of each other.

“’Nope’? That was your big statement before you kissed me for the first time?” Dan simpered. “I figured that after you harboring this crush for so long, you’d have a speech planned.”

“What was I supposed to say? You were aching to be kissed.”

“And what about now?” Jonah felt his shirt tightening around his back muscles as Dan drew him ever closer.

“Now…now I want to make you moan so loudly that those two homophobic dudes find us again.”

Dan’s mouth fell open, allowing Jonah to swoop forward and gather him up in his arms, lips and teeth crashing into one another.

It wasn’t the most skillful kiss, but it definitely made Dan emit noises Jonah hadn’t heard in years.

\---------- 

Jonah was certain they had missed their plane. They had definitely missed their flight, they had been standing in this secluded, dark area for days, weeks, lifetimes. He and Dan had melted into one another, formed one being, moved and breathed in unison.

So it surprised him when he heard a bell from a bar near them, ringing to signal that they were closing. Could it still be the same night? He felt Dan’s hands running up under his shirt, exposing his broad back to the cool air.

“We should go,” Dan muttered into Jonah’s mouth. Jonah’s knees buckled, more out of surprise than anything else. He broke away, looking down into Dan’s face. His eyes glistened with boyish mischievousness while his day-old stubble highlighted his jawline quite nicely. Jonah licked his lips, watching Dan’s eyes watch him.

“I want to walk,” Jonah suggested. “It would be much nicer than taking the drunk bus tonight.”

“Walk? Are you kidding? After we almost got the shit kicked out of us? I figured we would take a cab.”

“Come on, Dan! You can’t come to Paris and—you know, have _this_ happen, and not want to soak up the romanticity of the city!”

“Romanticity is not a word, doofus.” Dan playfully pushed Jonah away from him. Thinking on his feet, Jonah grabbed his hand, pulling Dan towards him, running his long fingers through the once-perfectly coiffed hair that had now become lackluster due to time and sweat. Holding Dan’s neck with both hands, Jonah kissed him deeply, slowly, putting small pressures on either side of Dan’s throat. Dan spurred him on, tracing Jonah’s ribs with his fingertips. _This is getting dangerous_.

“Alright. We walk,” Dan agreed after a few more moments of this interaction. Jonah gave him one more soft peck on each eyebrow before grabbing his hand and leading him back onto the street.

Now that bars and restaurants were beginning to close up, the streets overflowing with bodies, pressing into one another, drunkenly shouting and singing and weaving. Self-conscious of their touching, Jonah dropped Dan’s hand, but soon felt Dan’s hand comfortably finding its way towards the small of his back. Goosebumps rose on his arms, but he kept walking.

Instead of talking big boulevards, Jonah led the two of them down smaller streets, avoiding the touristy and more dangerous parts of the 18th arrondissement. He didn’t know the east side of Paris as well, having spent most of his time before in the bougie 16th, but he was knowledgeable enough to know that most big roads hit Place de la Republique.

Getting off Boulevard de Clichy onto Rue du Faubourg Poissoniere, the city suddenly felt engulfed in silence. Jonah heard sirens far off into the distance and the rumblings of unseen buses, but it seemed as if he and Dan were the only living beings on the streets. Feeling confident, he allowed himself to grab Dan’s hand, then, wrecklessly, he looped his arm around Dan’s waist.

“I—“ Dan began, but apparently decided against saying anything, and instead settled into it, finding a comfortable gait for the both of them. Their stride synced up, as well as their breathing, and they walked in pleasant silence through the hushed streets.

They barely spoke the entire walk back. Jonah wasn’t sure if it was them sobering up, or the exhaustion from the day—and night—settling in, but it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that they were together, together finally, everything coming together so easily. _Well, today has not been easy_ , he corrected himself. But there had to be some sort of chaotic energy in the universe making sure that, no matter what was thrown their way, they would have ended up here, wrapped around one another, strolling the streets of a slumbering Paris? Maybe fate was real.

In the small square opposite of their street, waiting for the light to cross, Dan broke apart from Jonah. It was here, mere hours ago, that Dan had spun in the rain, slipped down the steps, acted out of character for the first time. Or maybe he had been himself for the first time. Jonah still wasn’t sure.

“This is crazy.” Dan said matter-of-factly. “I just—stand here.” He placed his hands on Jonah’s shoulders, turning him just so, then walking away quickly. Dan shuffled over to a closed magazine stand, halfway across the plaza, then turned back around.

“CAN YOU HEAR ME JONAH?” Dan yelled, cutting across the muted night air. Jonah’s hair stood on end and he nodded. “I NEED YOU TO SAY IT OUT LOUD. CAN YOU HEAR ME?” They couldn’t have been more than thirty feet apart, but Dan shouted as if they were on opposite ends of the Verizon Center.

“I—I can hear you!” Jonah practically squeaked.  _Please God, let this end soon._

“GREAT. BECAUSE I WANT YOU TO KNOW, HERE, IN PARIS, WHILE EVERYONE IS SLEEPING, THAT—“ here, Dan cut himself off, doubled over, and Jonah could see him take a deep breath. “THAT I LOVE YOU, JONAH RYAN.”

Jonah’s brain was melting. That was for sure. It melted into a liquid, drained out of his ears, down his shoulders, and began to pool in his shoes. He felt as if he were floating, rising above the small trees in the park, staring down at that small man in a wrinkly shirt, shouting insane words. Because that was the only explanation; Dan had finally become fully unhinged, the loss of his job and the close presence of Jonah for the past who-knows-how-many hours had made him lose his mind. Jonah said nothing back.

“I HOPE EVERYONE HEARD THAT. I LOVE THAT TALL IDIOT OF MAN, JONAH RYAN.”

It didn’t matter if everyone, or anyone, heard him. Jonah heard him, and he finally soaked it in. Before he realized what was happening, he was sprinting towards Dan, meeting him in mere seconds, gathering him up in his arms, vowing to himself to never let him go.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "#nice love it when he fucks up"--a wise woman re: dan egan

_When I write about this moment in my tell-all_ , _in order to prove how interesting my mistakes in my youth were,_ Dan thought to himself, _I won’t mention that we didn’t actually have sex._ He’d say that he and Jonah spent the night together, of course. And, naturally, he would _allude_ to things, but he would never confirm or deny if copulation occurred. That ambiguity, Dan decided, would get someone (him) a slot with George Stephanopoulos on a Sunday morning. 

He rolled over, watching the light peek through the hastily closed blinds. The clock on the wall ticked just past 6:12 am, meaning that it was just past midnight in DC. He thought fleetingly about Amy, and Selina, and Gary, and what shitstorm they were dealing with. He had forgotten how calm and peaceful the sunrise could be when he wasn’t downing red bulls and fretting about a disaster brewing.

His mind went to his phone. He didn’t even know where he had put it in the airport in London—because, truly, that was the last time he had seen it. It was probably in some pocket of a bag or a jacket, shoved drunkenly away as Jonah had entered his proximity. Jonah had a talent at making himself the most important part of whatever Dan was doing, and Dan didn’t complete hate that.

As if on cue, Jonah snorted loudly, still asleep. They had fallen asleep wrapped around each other, fingers and legs tangled. After Dan’s love confession—he cringed to himself despite not regretting it—they had kissed, passionately, desperately, in the middle of the square. He had spent all afternoon trying to figure out how they would finally get to that point, of Dan letting his guard down and finally admitting to himself (and Jonah) about his rampant feelings. He hadn’t wanted it to be done by screaming it in the middle of the night, standing between wide boulevards. He had always calculated his movements in relationships so perfectly; he had measured exactly when to brush up against a girl on their first date, how to shyly turn away from them at the end of the second date, only to turn back abruptly and kiss them, preferably against a wall. Women loved being kissed against walls, Dan had learned.

His brain was running a mile a minute, and, usually, Dan would go for a run to match it’s pace and clear his mind. But he couldn’t run in Paris. In fact, he couldn’t imagine _anyone_ , Parisian or otherwise, going for a run here. Instead, he pried himself out from under Jonah’s heavy arm, slowly lowering it back down on the indented mattress. He grabbed his wrinkly shirt he had shed quickly only a few hours ago, when he and Jonah had stumbled into the apartment, undressing themselves and each other. There had been a brief moment when Dan was sure they were going to fuck, and for a second, Dan had pulled away, peering at Jonah, wondering if this was the person he wanted to lose his final virginity to. Jonah’s eyes crinkled, glowing with warmth for Dan—not a look he was used to.

“Uh—are we doing this?” Dan stammered, unable to look at Jonah for much longer than a few seconds at a time. Jonah had broken away, fingertips resting lightly on Dan’s hips.

“Doing what?” Dan knew Jonah knew what he was talking about. Jonah wanted Dan to say it out loud. In response, Dan shrugged his shoulders and gestured to his crumpled shirt sliding halfway down his arms.

“Do you want to?” Jonah’s voice was soft.

“I kind of…don’t.” As Dan said the last word, he saw Jonah’s face fall in one flash. “At least, I mean, not now. Not here. I don’t want to, y’know, _do it_ with you for the first time in some stranger’s apartment, after we’ve been drinking, and…” Dan didn’t need to go any further. Jonah rubbed his hands up and down Dan’s exposed triceps.

“Yeah, OK. That’s cool. We can just cud—“

“Don’t say cuddle,” Dan cut him off. Jonah rolled his eyes.

“Alright then, we’ll sleep next to each other.”

“With our bodies touching closely?”

“That’s cuddling, Dan!” Jonah threw his arms in the air, exasperated.

“But that _word_ is so terrible. We can do it, just don’t acknowledge it.”

“You are a mess.” Jonah had whispered this, kissing Dan above each eyebrow. Two light kisses, but that was all Dan needed. He melted in Jonah’s arms once more, and they had fallen onto the bed.

Now, Dan gathered his shirt and pants, initially trying to smooth out the wrinkles but giving up almost immediately. He grabbed a few Euros out of Jonah’s pants pocket, making a mental note to pay him back whenever they were around American money again. As he left the apartment, he grabbed a sweater fit for a college professor in his 60s from the coat rack and wrapped himself in it.

Stepping outside, the brisk morning air hit him like a wall and he held the sweater closed even tighter. He wasn’t entirely sure what day it was—Sunday, maybe?—but the streets were already bustling with vendors and early morning dog walkers. There were even a few joggers running down the sidewalk, avoiding collisions with bicyclists by only a few millimeters. 

Dan wasn’t sure where he was going, but his feet began to lead him down one twisting road after another. There were delicious, buttery smells coming from shadowed doorways, and he paused to look into the window of one boulangerie. _I wonder if Jonah would want butter or chocolate_? He thought as he looked at the freshly baked croissants. He made a mental note to get one of each on his way back.

Turning down a wide, empty lane, he saw a canal beckoning him, narrow with a handful of small footbridges crossing over to the other side. Young Parisians, clearly just ending a night out, lolled on the edges of the canal, finishing up bottles of wine and sharing large loaves of bread. A laugh cracked through the silence. Dan was suddenly overwhelmed by how many different people experienced the exact same night he had just lived through. _Mine was the most interesting, though_ , he reassured himself. He crossed a footbridge and continued strolling.

Walking parallel to the canal, Dan attempted to process the night before. Relationships with women in DC came easy to him; there was the courtship, the funny texts at night followed by something sentimental, the first few dates at nice restaurants or a late night movie screening followed by breakfast and alcoholic milkshakes at midnight at Ted’s Bulletin. There was the one state dinner or face-to-face with the Veep, usually about a month into the relationship. There were the shy looks across tables, the introductions to friends, the one night with too much alcohol and opening up. Then came the awkward conversations, the “I’m just not ready to be that vulnerable” admissions, the parting on bad terms and shirts thrown out windows (sure, that only happened once, but the movie-like reaction made it worthy enough to be included in the theme of Dan’s Relationship Cycle).

But this? With Jonah? What was even happening? It wasn’t like they could go back to D.C. and be a _couple_. The mere idea of him seeing Amy or Mike, inviting them to drinks, and casually dropping the bomb that he and Jonah were, in fact, dating made him snort out loud. No, no, this would end in Paris. Whatever was happening between him and Jonah, he would make sure it would not come back with him to the US. A relationship with Jonah was like an invasive plant; it wouldn’t make it through customs.

The sun was breaking over the taller buildings surrounding him, and the glint off the rooftops was making Dan feel woozy. His hangover was slowly hitting him and he needed coffee and food immediately. He turned around, crossing another footbridge, narrowly avoiding a pile of dog feces. Apparently, leaving _merde de chien_ was very bohemian in this city. Dan began a mental countdown of how many hours until he left.

“Bonjour, monsieur!” a bell tinkled as Dan entered a small, warm boulangerie. Enticing smells wafted from the back room, where a small, round man pulled fresh bread out of an oven three times his size.

“Uh, bon-bonjeyour,” Dan stammered. He remembered the tip Jonah gave him: as long as you make an attempt, French people won’t be bitterly rude to you. He racked his brain for more French phrases Jonah had taught him during their walks yesterday, but nothing came to him.

“Que vous voulez ce matin, monsieur?” The portly woman behind the counter smiled at him, her eyes crinkling, and there were flour marks on her apron and fingertips.  The man in the back carried a large basket of freshly baked bread with him.

“Oui, uh, two—doo payne oh chocolate, see voo play?” The woman nodded, understanding.

“Just these two?” she asked, speaking almost impeccable English. Dan was taken aback, but decided that since she initiated it, he could continue in his mother tongue as well.

“Um, no. Butter also?” he pointed at the buttery almond croissants and she packed two of those in a bag as well, handing it to him. “Thank you. Merci!” He handed her a crumpled 5 Euro note, hoping it would be enough. She counted out his change slowly.

“Enjoy, monsieur. Ce sera une belle journée—a beautiful day.” Dan thanked her again for the croissants and the English as he backed out of the bakery.

The sun was fully up by now. Large church bells from somewhere near by rang out the time—Dan stopped walking, mid-bite, counting the _bongs_ , it was 7 am now—when he finally felt the full weight of what had happened last night. He almost collapsed onto a bench in embarrassment. Why had he let his emotions get the best of him? If he had just waited until he sobered up, until he was back in Washington and had set a few meetings with prospective employers, he would have realized how silly it was to think this could ever happen. He and Jonah didn’t have a future; they barely had a present. How did he imagine this would turn out? _Not well_ , he thought. He knew he had to bite the bullet and inform Jonah. Hopefully the warm, fresh croissants would soften the blow.       

\----------

“So…that’s it?” Jonah’s tousled hair stuck up awkwardly as he sat at the small kitchen table, reaching into the paper bag Dan had brought.

“Uh, yes, you human food dumpster, I figured four croissants would be enough for the two of us.”

“Alright man, sorry. I just thought maybe you had gotten me an almond one as well.” Dan glared at Jonah. Despite not knowing that he was going to end whatever was happening between them, Jonah was doing a bang-up job making it easy for him.

“How about a ‘thank you’?” Jonah softened immediately, pulling his hand out of the bag.

“I’m sorry, man. I wasn’t thinking. You’re right, thanks for getting food.” Jonah paused. “Even though I did get breakfast yesterday, and you were just brutal to me all day after.” If Jonah hadn’t been so right, Dan probably would have punched him.

“Right, listen, about yesterday,” Dan sat down in a chair across from Jonah, folding his hands. He unfolded his hands. He crossed his legs. He stood up. He sat back down. No position felt right to do this. _Maybe because it shouldn’t be done_. He instantly poured a bucket of water on that though, extinguishing it completely.

“Hey, want to go to the Père Lachaise today?” Jonah asked, cutting Dan off before he could say his piece.

“What’s that?”

“Like, the sickest cemetery ever. It’s got these old decaying tombstones and tons of famous people are buried there, Edith Piaf and Balzac and Oscar Wilde. When I lived here I would just wander around and think.”

“And you’re feeling reflective because it was the last time you had a real thought?”

“Fuck off,” Jonah said, but playfully, and Dan felt Jonah’s knee brush his own. Sparks shot up and down his leg, and he sprung up from the table.

“Well let’s get going, then!” He said enthusiastically, attempting to cover up his reaction to being touched by Jonah.

“Oh, ok, I guess I’m ready,” Jonah said slowly, running his hands through his messy hair.

“Yeah, you look fine.”

“Oh do I, Daniel?” Jonah sauntered over to him, placing his fingers lightly on Dan’s hips. Dan yelped and jumped away. “What’s wrong?”

“I—when I’m hungover, my body just like, hurts. We drank a lot last night.” Dan grimaced.

“Really? I’m not hungover at all. Must be my youth.” Again, Dan had a strong urge to punch Jonah in the face. And yet, simultaneously, he ached to kiss him all over. Pulling himself together, Dan glared at Jonah.

“Yeah, don’t you have that disease Robin Williams has in _Jack_? Where you are ten years old but have the body of a 40 year old?”

“Joke’s on you if I did. It would mean you made out with a child.” After a moment of silence where Dan tried to think of something biting to say back, Jonah gave him a thumbs up. “I’ll just be a second.”

After approximately twenty minutes, the two were back on the streets of Paris, side-by-side, doing the not-quite-touching touching dance. Dan was amazed at how natural they still felt, after all the anger and awkwardness and kissing. They still felt right and warm and electric. They still felt complete.

The cemetery was massive, like Jonah had said, and as they stepped through the wrought iron gates, the sounds of the city seemed to be muffled to almost silence. They began wandering down a sinuous path, slowly going downhill and then up, each lost in their own world. Taking light steps on an uneven path covered by tree branches, Jonah’s fingertips reached for Dan’s. He pulled back as if he had been shocked.

“OK, what’s up with you?” Jonah asked, stopping.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been acting _so_ weird this morning.” Yesterday, Dan had: a) slept in a stranger’s apartment, b) spun in the rain, and c) kissed Jonah all over the city. And yet now he was acting weird?

“What are you talking about?” Dan decided to go the feigning ignorance route for as long as he could.

“Yesterday was—well, it was yesterday. I was hoping today could be, you know…great. But now you’re acting like, y’know. A real jerk.” Jonah kicked a small pebble and they both watched it totter down the cobbled avenue.

“I didn’t realize I was doing anything different today.”

“Bullshit, last night you fucking _liked_ me. Today you can barely look at me.” Jonah took a step closer to Dan. “Am I a bad kisser? Tell me the truth.”

Dan almost laughed in his face. The truth was, Jonah was the best kisser he had ever been with. His use of pressure and his hand placements were really award-worthy. Plus, the things he could do with his tongue! Dan didn’t even want to think about if they had gotten past first base last night. His brain would short-circuit. But instead of saying all of that, Dan just said:

“Nah buddy, you’re fine,” while patting him fatherly on his shoulder. He felt Jonah tense.

“Buddy?”

“Aren’t we buddies?”

“I’m—“ Jonah stopped himself, biting his lower lip. “Y’know what Dan, I don’t think we are. I think you’re just some asshole that I felt sorry for and tried to take care of. But I’m done now.” As if his statement wasn’t clear enough, Jonah pretended to wipe his hands clean of an invisible mess. “I’m tired of being treated this way, and I’m especially tired of you ignoring whatever feelings you are most definitely having.”

“I’m not—“

“Please, for your dignity and mine, don’t pretend like last night was just caused by your drunken stupor. You’re better than that.” Jonah shrugged. “Or, actually, maybe you’re not.”

Dan felt his heart beating in his throat. Jonah turned, shoving his hands in his pockets and continuing to walk down the path. Dan reached out, grabbing his elbow, but Jonah jerked it away from him.

“Don’t—don’t fucking touch me. You can’t treat people this way. Maybe it’s why you’re so fucked right now. You mess with peoples’ brains and don’t…I really liked you! Like. I really _like_ you. And I thought, being here, in this city, and maybe if I showed you a different part of me, not ‘Jonad’ but my, y’know, real self, what I consider my real self, you would actually, maybe, want to be around me. Choose to be around me, even. But now I know better. Other than whatever you want to call last night, you’ve been a giant shit to me, and I’m tired of it. I don’t deserve this.”

And with that, Jonah gave Dan a solemn nod and turned on his heel, leaving Dan behind. _Probably for the best_ , Dan thought. He swiped at both eyes quickly and ducked behind a large monument to a deceased French soldier, shielding himself from any passers-by just as his tears came fast and hot and unrelenting. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ He really deserved an award for how well and quickly he ruined something this great.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a full-on disaster, but thanks to everyone who decided to read it. I didn't realize how long it was going to be, boy do I like to ramble! special shout out to my girl E, the best dan/jonah fan I know, who made me write this in the first place.

Jonah was, for lack of a better word, heartbroken. Of course, he was also being a bit dramatic—Paris tended to bring that out of him (during his time studying here, he had spent most days that even _threatened_ rain at a café, listening to Jacques Brel and attempting to write poetry in a moleskin he had purposefully stepped on dozens of times). But he had to admit, it was rare that he let someone get under his skin the way Dan did. He was pissed at Dan, but more than that, he was pissed at himself. He was a fucking island, he was a goddamn rock, he didn’t let anyone through the barricade (to use a Parisian reference).

And yet here he was, sitting on the dirt, leaning against a cool tombstone, half-hidden from the view of the walkway. It felt sacrilegious to be practically sitting on top of a dead body, so Jonah apologized to the spirit of Georges Cloutier, whoever he was. He pitched himself forward—if he tilted his head just right, he could see the Oscar Wilde tombstone, the large sculpture covered in kisses and messages about love and accepting yourself and all that bullshit. Couples teemed around, reading and writing notes, quietly appreciating the hundreds who had come before them to pay homage to the same storyteller.

Relaxing back against M. Cloutier’s headstone, Jonah closed his eyes and counted down the hours until he was back in D.C.; he was ready to get back to the land where people told him, to his face, straight forward, no ambiguity, that they fucking despised him. He appreciated that kind of truth. That kind of truth didn’t leave him feeling dizzy and wounded.

He heard a branch break under someone’s foot behind him, and then someone swore under their breath. Jonah whipped his head around and saw the scuffed up, dusty dress shoes, then the wrinkly pants and now-off white oxford shirt, and, finally, Dan, his head hanging, stubble growing dark on his two-days-without-shaving face. Jonah felt as if he hadn’t seen him in years, had been convinced he had died in a plane crash or boat accident. He felt as if he were seeing a ghost.

“So…how would we do this?” Dan asked, shoulders slumped. He slid down Georges’ tombstone, doing the sign of the cross almost robotically as he reached the dirt. Jonah was befuddled.

“Do what?” Jonah didn’t want to say anything too loudly or suddenly, lest he frighten this skittish bird away.

“Do we just…just throw a dinner party, order a banner that says ‘Surprise! We’re gay dating’—“

“It’s just dating, Dan.”

“Right, sorry, just…dating.” Dan angled himself towards Jonah, their knees resting next to each other. “But it’s not just dating. Is it? People will, y’know, have _things_ to say. About us.”

Jonah raised his eyebrows. “And?”

“And…and! And it’s D.C., it’s a small town, I can’t just come back and say, hey Mike, Gary, _Amy_ , sorry I haven’t responded to all of those texts, but hey, I just spent two wild days in Paris with Jonah and guess what! We’re _dating_!”

“I’ve had people talk shit about me, _to me,_ since I was thirteen. Do you really care that much about what they think?”

Dan bristled. “Of course I do! These are my peers, I—well, I don’t necessarily respect them, but I work with them, and rely on them to make sure that I don’t fall by the wayside.”

“I’m pretty sure you did that to yourself as Selina’s short-lived campaign manager.”

Dan went silent. His shoulders fell forward and, resting his elbows on his knees, he hid his head between his hands. He muttered something under his breath, and Jonah leaned forward to hear.

“What was that?”

“I said, ‘fuck it.’” Dan lifted his head. A crafty grin began to spread across his face. “You’re right. I did fuck up as Selina’s campaign manager. And so many times before that. I’m just a massive fuck up.” Jonah thought to comfort him, figured Dan was, after so many false alarms, finally, completely, losing his mind.

“You’re not a fuck—“

“Yep. I am. Completely. I can’t remember the last time I’ve done something right.” Dan paused, peering at Jonah. “But you like me. I mean, you seem to really like me.”

Jonah shrugged. “Yeah, I feel like I’ve made that _pretty_ clear.”

“You have! And as much as I’ve tried to deny it, I…” Dan struggled with the next words. “I’ve grown accustomed to your face.”

“ _My Fair Lady_?”

“My fair Jonah.” Dan broke into peals of laughter. “You make me quote musicals! You make me acknowledge my _love_ of musicals! You know why I wanted to go to Montmartre yesterday? _Moulin fucking Rouge_!”

“I know. I knew that you loved that movie.”

“You knew! You know these things about me, and you care, and you—you’re right, you took care of me this whole trip. And I was so shitty to you! Why was I so shitty to you?”

“Because you’re a shitty person?”

“I’m a shitty person! But you still like me for some reason!”

Jonah nodded. “I seem to like you, yeah.”

“And…and I like you! I love you, man. I think I actually fucking love you.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do, you loser. I wasn't lying last night when I, jeez, when I shouted it in the middle of a street. Trust me, I've tried my fucking hardest to convince myself otherwise, but I’ve liked you since we went to that horrible concert together.”

Jonah’s mind was racing. That night felt like millennia ago, a time so far stretched back that it was blurry on the edges. There was only one thing in focus: Dan. He remembered him so clearly from that night, the first time they had been pressed against each other, sweaty and tipsy. Not much had changed, apparently. He wanted to ask Dan a million questions—why hadn’t he said anything that night, or the weeks that followed? What was it about that night that changed things? _Why was he still denying his feelings_? But Jonah decided to simply accept this change of heart.

“Well then. Cool.”

“It _is_ cool, isn’t it, Jonah?”

“So what happens when our plane takes off tomorrow morning?”

Dan cocked his head at Jonah, confused. “I’ll probably fall asleep on your shoulder again. I’m allowed to do that to my…” Dan let out a large sigh and continued, “to my boyfriend, right?”

“Dunno, depends on if your boyfriend wants something in return.”

“I’m not having sex with you in the plane’s bathroom.”

“Come on, Dan! What’s the point of _flying_ with your boyfriend if you don’t do that?” Dan ignored him, standing up and brushing off his dust-coated pants. “But I meant more, how are we going to tell people?”

“I wasn’t joking with that banner idea.” Dan held out his hand to Jonah, offering to help him up. Jonah swiftly accepted and was surprised at how effortlessly Dan plucked him off the ground.

Before Jonah had even found his balance, Dan’s hands were around his waist, mouth meeting mouth, eyelashes brushing cheeks. Jonah felt heat radiating off of Dan and drew him closer, feeling his pulse racing through his neck. They kissed deeply, Jonah’s tongue spelling out his feelings in cursive in Dan’s mouth. Finally, after another millennium, Dan pulled away.

“Man, I didn’t want to even mention this, but really? Moping next to Oscar Wilde’s tomb? Could you be _any_ more predictable?”

Jonah’s heart swelled and he could almost hear Edith Piaf crooning through the trees. He wouldn’t mind if they died here together, wrapped in each other’s arms, turning to dust as one. Dan beamed at him and Jonah felt, for the first time in his life, that he was in exactly the right place. He pressed his forehead against Dan’s, breathing him in, and sighed.

“You’re a real dick, Dan.”


End file.
